


Safe With Him

by dragonwriter24cmf



Series: Mycroft's Rescue [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Brother Feels, Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Whump, Nudity, POV Mycroft Holmes, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Mycroft gets kidnapped. He's not worried about whether or not Sherlock will find him. He worries about what will happen before then, and how long it might take. And about the aftermath.
Series: Mycroft's Rescue [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612684
Comments: 3
Kudos: 89





	1. Kidnapped

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to the creators of Sherlock

**Safe With Him**

He’s always known it was possible for him to be taken prisoner. He takes precautions; security, vetted guards and drivers. He has his personal secretary, who has passed every test he’s ever given her with flying colors and never stopped to think twice about it. Safeguards upon safeguards upon safeguards. Still, he’s always known it’s possible for someone to get past them. It needn’t even be Sherlock, though his brother might be the most adept at it.

He is arguably the smartest person in England, bar his siblings, but he cannot attend to everything, nor can he remain alert at all times. And his singular intelligence can be trumped by a group effort, rare though it is. So he remains cautious and wary, and does what he can to minimize his risks.

Even so, he is not terribly surprised (though he finds it irksome) when he steps into his Town-car one late evening and the doors abruptly lock. The driver partition is already in place, as it usually is, and the doors lock before he can realize that it is dark, obscured glass rather than the usual clear. But by then, gas is already pouring into the vehicle, knockout gas of some kind from the smell. Sherlock would likely know the exact kind. Sherlock would also likely have some resistance built up, given his predilection for experimenting with all sorts of noxious chemicals.

And then he stops thinking as the gas renders him unconscious.

When he wakes he is in a small, bare stone room of gray concrete, nothing remarkable about it save it’s bland drabness. He is chained, quite firmly, to a most uncomfortable metal chair, and a brief test of his bonds reveals no slack with which he might affect an escape. The chair is too heavy, and his body too awkwardly seated, to get any leverage for moving it.

More worrisome, his captors have stripped him, leaving him completely naked. His natural modesty abhors such a situation, and the vulnerability of it makes him acutely uncomfortable. But perhaps most worrisome is the stinging in two places that indicates that his emergency transponders have been removed, and the careful probe of his tongue that proves the tooth cap hiding a final emergency measure has also been removed.

Either he has been betrayed, or his captors are singularly paranoid and have done a thorough search and scan of his person while he was rendered unconscious.

That he is alive still argues against any immediate plans for his demise. Which means that either his captors want information, or they wish to make a graphic example of him for some purpose of their own. There are people and organizations who hold grudges, and more which might attempt to prove their strength by such a show. And even a minor government official might have secrets that are useful. He of course has much more.

He suspects he will know soon enough which scenario it is. In the meantime, he sorts and stores what little he does know.

Drugs mean that he does not know where he has been brought, or how much time has passed. However, though he does not like the fact that his emergency transmitters have been removed, he also knows that their removal will have triggered a specific response.

Anthea will have been notified immediately when the transponders and microchip monitors were removed. She will know soon, if she does not already, that he never arrived at home, his intended destination when he entered the car.

Another signal will have gone to Lady Smallwood, who will immediately act to temporarily lock his access to any and all government facilities, until such time as she is assured of his safe retrieval and given the proper codes.

In the meantime, his assistant will have gone directly to Baker Street to enlist the aid of his brother. And Sherlock will come, he knows this. Since Magnusson and Sherrinford, he and Sherlock have mended fences somewhat. Besides, even were they still on poor terms Sherlock would jump at the chance to show off his superior skills and do a bit of gloating, to say nothing of demanding some form of compensation for the rescue. And, of course, he will search to protect his own reputation, for a detective who cannot or will not search for his own brother, a government official, would get very little business indeed.

He fancies that even Dr. Watson would have sharp words for his brother in such a case.

No, he is confident that Sherlock will search for him. It only remains to to discover how long it will take his brother, which will depend on the effort his captors have put into concealing their movements, versus the effort that Sherlock might put into finding him.

He is willing to concede that this person or organization has been thorough and intelligent in their movements thus far, but he doubts they have the skills and intelligence of other masterminds whom Sherlock has dealt with. And if all else fails, there is Eurus, who likes Sherlock well enough that she might lend her talents to the search, however she regards Mycroft himself.

His thoughts are interrupted by the entrance of his captors. He surveys them dispassionately from behind his own bland mask.

They are careful, he will give them that. Their outfits are carefully designed to make them the same height, without overt signs of increasing or decreasing their stature. The black garments are completely nondescript, even by his standards, and the color provides a slimming effect even as apparent layers provide bulk. They are masked, and a bulge at their throats reveals a microphone with voice alteration equipment. Their eyes possess the too-vivid sheen of color-changing contact lenses, and their hands are gloved with multiple layers of fine polymer gloves, hiding both shape and skin tone. Even the little patch of skin around the eyes has been carefully blacked.

He revises the odds between betrayal and paranoia in his head to favor paranoia. They are very careful, these men. And apparently, very, very good.

And they want information. This is both blessing and curse. They will keep him alive, and Sherlock is not the only one who knows how to frustrate interrogators. He has his own training and experience, his own skills.

But, like any man, he also has a breaking point. His defense techniques will only work so long. And the length of time will change depending on their techniques for breaking him.

Nonetheless, his odds are better with an interrogation than they would be if he were to be a graphic example. That is a comforting thought. Hopefully Sherlock will find him before the critical point is reached.

They start with simple questions. “What is your name?”

“What is your birthday?”

“What are the names of your family members?”

“Who is the Queen of England? Who are the members of her Council?”

“Who is Head of Parliament?”

All these are questions anyone could find the answers to. He almost scoffs at them. Really, did they think they would take him off guard with this? This is an elementary interrogation technique, and he could ignore it in his sleep.

He knows the dual purpose of the questions. First, to lull him into complacency about answering, in an attempt to lead him into more dangerous questions before he can catch himself. Second, to provide access to areas that require his voice-print speaking specific phrases. There are many such doors that can be opened with his words, and he is certain that their voice modulators will also contain a recording function. They would be fools to do otherwise, and thus far they have proved to have an annoying amount of intelligence. Not Moriarty or Magnusson level, but a nuisance nonetheless.

He gives them nothing but a bland smile and his silence.

This continues for two hours. Pointless questions. Were he Sherlock, he is certain the boredom would have caused him to do something rash. But he has sat through Parliament meetings and other such functions, which were far more dull. He maintains his facade, using his mind to count the seconds and attempting to analyze the questions for patterns. Patterns in information gathering, patterns in speech or cadence that might be recognizable later.

They leave him alone after two hours. At this point, he is hungry and thirsty, not to mention getting increasingly uncomfortable, bare skin pressed against the unforgiving metal of the chair and limbs aching from being confined to one position for so long.

Another hour passes, and the men return. At least, he believes it to be the same men. There really is no way to tell. They might be different men, given the change in their interrogation technique.

His previous questioners stood well back, asking questions in bored, monotone voices. They acted like businessmen, more or less. These men, however, are restless. They prowl. They also get close, well into his personal space. Occasionally even going so far as to brush against him. Behind him, where he is defenseless and cannot see. Too close to his hands, as if they might lean in and crush his fingers.

The voices too are altered, to a low growl that he might find disconcerting, had he not studied the effect of harmonics and low-key registers and recognized the subsonic and extreme bass frequencies meant to generate fear and discomfort. Once recognized, he is able to put the effects aside with little effort. Sherlock has more than once attempted to use such devices to discourage monitoring, and he has learned any number of coping mechanisms.

He keeps his silence, though he lets his expression drop to one of boredom and annoyance, rather than trying to maintain the smile. He makes no effort to keep the men in sight when they prowl behind him. It would give them an advantage, did he show discomfort when they are out of his line of sight, so he does not. He controls himself and avoids starting when cloth or slick polymers touch bare skin, and gives no sign of reaction. His silence is his best defense, and once he breaks it, he knows they will hammer at the cracks.

Eventually, this too ends. He sits, in silence, waiting for the next ploy and examining his own condition.

It has been some hours now, since his capture. At least 12 have passed since his last meal, and at least six since his last visit to...facilities. He can feel both the ache in his upper abdomen that signifies hunger, and in the lower abdomen which signifies a need for relief of a different kind. He is also aware of a dryness, a cottony feeling in his mouth and throat that means thirst.

He has no doubt his captors will use these conditions as bargaining chips, at some point. Whether it will be the next session or a later one is the only variable.

The men return, this time with cases and a small rolling table. And there are three of them this time. At least he knows now that there were more than two. Most likely a small organization of some kind.

One of them addresses him. “Mr. Holmes. I imagine by now you’re in a bit of discomfort. We can address that, if you’d be willing to give us a sign of good faith in return. Just confirm your name for us, and that would be enough for...” He takes a bottle from one of his comrades, shaking it lightly. A water bottle, with a shimmer of condensation that means it’s cold.

He keeps his silence. Finally the man sighs and tosses the bottle back. “If you aren’t willing to make some show of cooperation, then we can’t help you. And if we can’t make you more comfortable, then it might be our unpleasant duty to make you less comfortable until we reach an understanding.”

He gives no sign that he hears, or cares. After some minutes (three by his count) pass, the man sighs again. “As you wish.” Then, without further ado, he leans in and plants a firm, twisting punch in Mycroft’s lower gut.

Not only does this hurt quite enough to make his breath stutter, it also has a much more immediate and humiliating effect. Under the sudden pressure, he feels his bowels give way, leaking the contents of his lower intestinal tract over himself and the chair.

He feels his cheeks burn at the knowledge that he as just soiled himself (he refuses to think in the cruder terms that Sherlock would no doubt use), but forces his expression back into impassive boredom once more. He refuses to give his captors the satisfaction of his humiliation beyond his blush.

The man turns. “Always find it best to get that out of the way.” He takes up a small case, and pulls a small syringe from it. “Since you insist, Mr. Holmes, on being difficult...perhaps this will loosen you up.” With no further words, he moves forward, shoves Mycroft’s chin roughly up and sideways, and injects the contents into his bloodstream.

It takes only moments to feel the effects. A barbituate cocktail, meant to serve as ‘truth serum’.

Fortunate for him that this is the one drug set he  _ has _ built up a resistance to. He always knew that he might need such a resistance in the government, and after he began rescuing Sherlock from drug dens, it became even more imperative. Not only because of the things he could be accidentally exposed to in such rescues. Sometimes, the only way to make Sherlock take drugs needed for his recovery was to submit to the procedure himself. And sometimes, when Sherlock was feeling vindictive and petty, his younger brother had slipped him all manner of drugs. Sometimes even just because he was bored and thought observing a stoned elder brother amusing. 

He doesn’t bother to fight the suppressing effects. They’re minimal and don’t impede his superior brain function anyway. He lets himself relax in his chair. And in a way, it’s nice that he has a temporary respite from worrying about the waste fluids pooling and cooling between his legs and under him.

“Now then, state your name.”

He blinks at the man, ignoring the question in favor of studying his masked face. No real details to give him away, but he wasn’t expecting any.

“I said, state your name.”

He wonders if he should bother, and which name he could give them if he did. Mycroft, the name he is known by to most? Mykie, as his mother likes to call him? Antartica, his Code Name in P.A.L.L? The Iceman? One of Sherlock’s more derogatory terms? One of Sherlock’s less derogatory terms? Mr. Holmes, as his assistant and many of his colleagues call him?

The man questioning him waits, then tries another question.

“What position do you occupy in the British Government?”

Position? He holds positions, plural. Half of them that no one knows even exist and the other half so top secret that only a few know, and only one or two public enough that he can acknowledge them on the street. He considers the question poorly phrased, and sees no reason to answer when the question has not been clarified.

He senses genuine impatience from the man this time. “What is the most important position you hold?”

Most important? To whom? Someone like Lady Smallwood would say it his position in P.A.L.L. There are others who would name other positions. He himself would say that his most important position is ‘Sherlock’s elder brother’ or ‘the Eldest Holmes child’.

Again, he considers the question too non-specific to answer.

Three more unanswered questions, and they give him another dose of drugs. The lassitude increases a bit, and his brain gets the slightest bit foggy, but hardly enough to make him speak.

They go through two more doses, and an attempt with a different set of drugs, before the group finally seems to realize that drugs will wring no speech from him. The man who has asked questions stares at him for several moments, then finally turns and follows his group out, shutting the door behind him.

He sits for a long time, returning to his senses as the drugs filter from his system. The filth under his legs has gone cold and sticky and stinks like some of the more disreputable drug dens Sherlock used to frequent.

When the men return, it is with different tools, and these he can recognize the uses of far more easily. Now they have come to the ‘forceful’ interrogation techniques, as it is politely called.

The leader, or at least the man who has the responsibility of directing the group this time, steps forward and grips his chin in a hard grip. “This is your last chance before we’re forced to get rough with you.”

He makes no answer. Did they really think that threats of violence would do anything to sway him? He scoffs, though only in the privacy of his mind. That is nearly as laughable as their previous attempt to get him to trade government secrets for water and food.

The man barks a snarling sound that might be a laugh. “Have it your way. Just speak up when you’re ready for us to stop.”

Two of the men load their hands with brass knuckles, and go to work.

The interlude that follows is...unpleasant. The men are very thorough in their beating of his body, and very, very precise. The blows are enough to leave bruises, enough to rock him into the chair and ensure that he has bruises on his back as well. The metal splits and gouges skin and leaves long welts. They break no bones, and they carefully avoid his face, he suspects to avoid the possibility of a concussion or a broken jaw limiting his usefulness later. They trade off, so that when one man shows signs of fatigue, another takes his place, rotating through them. And they do not stop until they have bruised him from collarbones to toes. When they are done, he feels rather like a piece of meat put through a tenderizer. Livid splotches of blue and purple are already springing up over his skin, and his several newly acquired wounds are in various stages of bleeding.

The leader motions one of the men over and whispers an order. The man departs, to return later with a small bucket and a large bottle. He pours the contents of the latter into the former, then heaves it over Mycroft’s frame.

Burning pain slices through him as the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol fills his nose. The harsh disinfectant burns in his cuts and scrapes, and it takes all his willpower to retain the silence he has not yet broken.

Well, he supposes he will be spared the difficulties of infection, and that is all to the good. But still...he does not relish further ‘treatment’ if it’s going to be like this.

Another period of solitude, and then they return. He idly wonders how many of them there really are. He only sees three at a time now, but they all look the same, literally, so it’s difficult to tell.

This period involves the removal of his fingernails, his toenails, and the breaking of bones. His hands, his feet. His lower arms and shins.

He remains silent, but cannot deny that this is more of an effort. Enough of an effort that he begins to categorize in his mind what sounds he can make, what things he can say, once he breaks. He knows it will happen, sooner or later. They will break his silence. And, as one of his teachers once told him, ‘You can’t decide what you  _ won’t _ say, because that will put it at the front of your mind, and when you’re delirious with pain or dehydration, it’ll slip out. No. You focus on what you will say, some sort of meaningless nonsense that you can afford to use.’

He’s always liked numbers, and the mathematical notations of music.

The next method involves burning objects. Burns to his flesh. They seek out tender spots with great precision. His forearms. Fingertips. Behind his knees and his inner thighs. Armpits. Chest. Back. Near his throat. The treatment leaves him gasping.

When they give him a shot of stimulant, another of nutrients and pour a half-bottle of water down his throat, he realizes that starvation and sleep deprivation will be part of their method, as will limited dehydration. Not too much, of course, or he’ll die without giving them anything they want, but the plan is clear.

Sleep deprivation hardly worries him. Like Sherlock, he is something of an insomniac anyway. It is the dehydration that concerns him the most.

The next round involves...panic situations. Choking him. Suffocating him for short periods. Electric shocks of varying intensities. Waterboarding. He cannot help his body’s responses, the increase of his heartbeat or the surges of adrenaline that make him writhe and shudder ineffectively in his bonds. Nor can he stop the heavy gasping wheezes that occur when they release him. Or the shrill, nasal sounds he makes when the shock runs through him and his bruised body arcs in the unforgiving metal of his restraints.

By the time they leave him, gasping and shuddering, he thinks that at least one full day has passed. He has not broken yet, but they are getting closer to that point.

The next time the men enter his cell, he is almost puzzled. They carry nothing but an assortment of needles and an IV bag. The IV is obviously to make sure he doesn’t die, but the other needles…

One of the men steps behind him and jabs a needle, the largest by the feel, into his spine near the base of his skull. A burst of excruciating pain occurs.

And then his body goes numb. Completely, utterly numb. As if it doesn’t exist anymore.

Another man has come in with equipment that he recognizes as a nasal canula and an oxygen tank. But apparently, he is breathing, because they don’t hook it up to him immediately.

From the movements, the IV is inserted, but he cannot feel it.

Smaller needles are inserted into points on his face, and gradually his face goes numb as well. He recognizes the effect of Novocaine or some other such drug.

The oxygen line is attached after all. Perhaps it is a precaution, perhaps he is showing signs of distress. He can’t tell. He can’t  _ feel _ .

Or taste, or smell. Then fingers plug his ears with wax, and he can’t hear either.

The men return to the door, and the light goes out, plunging him into darkness as his final sense is extinguished.

Sensory deprivation. His mind sorts out what has happened. The first shot must have been an epidural. And then the Novocaine. Earplugs for his ears. No light for his eyes.

He comes close to panicking. In all his life, he has never been without his senses. Never imagined not being able to gather data from the space around himself. He’s heard of sensory deprivation, of course, but never imagined being subjected to it. And most of the versions he's heard of involved a water tank, which might have been helpful to his current state and would definitely have been a change from the wretched chair he has come to loathe.

He counts the passing seconds, and clings desperately to sanity. His entire body, every cell of him it feels like, is straining for some form of input, some form of stimulus. Some kind of data. And for the first time in his life, there is...nothing.

He’s not sure if his captors know it, but they have discovered a most effective form of torture for him. He cannot imagine anything worse than this. He cannot even pass out or fall asleep, mind racing. There is likely a stimulant in the IV to keep him awake and aware, but he doesn’t care. The range of movement he has, especially now that he cannot make his muscles obey him, is not enough for him even to knock himself out.

And there is another horror. He cannot make any part of his body obey his conscious commands. He has been in control of himself ever since he passed through the worst of adolescence, never faltering, and now he cannot even tell his own expression, nor force it into impassiveness.

He counts the seconds, then the minutes, then the hours. He reaches 4 of the later before anything happens.

The Novocaine is beginning to wear off, feeling returning to his face and neck. He cannot hear, and his sense of smell and taste are blunted, but the recovery is enough to buoy his spirits somewhat.

Then something wraps across his face, over his eyes. He releases an embarrassing half-shout of panic, recognizable only as a vibration in his throat and ears. The earplugs are removed, he hears a faint scraping, and then…

Loud, discordant music blares into the room, assaulting his ears and wringing an involuntary cry of agony from him. Seconds later the blindfold his ripped away, just as two high-powered lights blaze into being, directly in his face.

The assault would be too much for him on an ordinary day. His eyes are too sensitive, his ears as well. Trained as he is to catch the smallest details, noise and light such as this would be overwhelming at any time. But now, after hours of straining for stimulus that isn’t there, after hours of nothing but his own thoughts…

He cries out again, cringing into his chair from the lights, closing his eyes in a futile gesture as the brilliance stabs through his eyelids and into his corneas and his brain.

By the time the lights are removed and the music cut off, he is near sobbing. The last of the Novocaine has worn off, and he can smell that he has once again fouled himself. His re-sensitized nose appreciates the foulness of that as little as his ears and eyes appreciated the abuse they were subjected to, and he gags and dry-heaves in a combination of disgust and pain.

He cannot stop his reactions, and he knows his captors are taking careful note of them. If they did not know how effective their technique was before, they do now. A part of him is ashamed to have revealed such weakness. He manages to keep from speaking when the leader asks him questions, but it is a poor sop to his damaged pride and mortified ego.

It only grows worse when the following hours prove a new pattern of action by his captors. They’ve learned from his response, and they take full advantage of it.

Another period of sensory deprivation. He wonders where they are getting the drugs for this. Someone in the group must have access to a pharmacy. He files it away with the few other tidbits he knows. From their professional approach to drugging him, he suspects at least one is actually a medical professional. They are walking a careful line, and either they have had extensive training in torture techniques, or they have had extensive training in putting people together after they’ve been taken apart.

Clearly sociopaths, or psychopaths, if they can do this to him. Or zealots. He’s seen and heard no signs of remorse or hesitation, so they have no compunctions, moral or otherwise, about what they are doing to him.

They don’t use the same over-stimulation method the second time. The second time involves ice in delicate places, like his genitals, followed by more burning brands, including one that is inserted between chair slats and into the seam of his thighs and buttocks. That wrenches a scream from him, because while ice cooling burning is comforting, the reverse is far from true.

As they leave him again, gasping and shaking, he reflects that Sherlock has always accused him of having a poker up his arse. He’s never thought it funny, but the reality has proved far more painful than even Sherlock’s jokes.

He wonders if this whimsical consideration is a sign that he is cracking under the strain, going mad.

He wants, more than he ever thought possible, for Sherlock to find him. He no longer cares if his brother humiliates him or mocks him. Let him. Better Sherlock than this.

The third period they pour offal into his mouth and his lap, and he gags and heaves and chokes. They don’t ask him questions, for a change, and he realizes that their plans have changed. They’ve decided to break him completely before they ask him anything.

He knows this, because the leader leans down and speaks in his ear in a low voice before he leaves. “All you have to do to stop this is speak up, Mr. Holmes.”

They intend to make him surrender. He has to admit, it is a good strategy, and the assault they’ve chosen might be designed just for him, or people like him. He is stubborn, but even he has limits.

Sometime later, in between the periods of sensory deprivation and torture over-stimulation, he stops counting seconds, or marking the passing of time. Everything of his mind, of his will, is locked into a struggle not to lose his sanity, or this battle of wills he is engaged in. He does not hope to come through intact, only to protect those things which must be protected for Queen and Country. And for Sherlock, who would also be in danger if he surrenders.

He no longer tries to hold back his cries and noises of pain. The relief is comfort of a sort, even if he knows that if he ever gets out and recovers, he will be ashamed of the noises he makes. He cries and groans and shudders and writhes, and fights neither the mucus from his nose or the involuntary tears wrung from his eyes. He gasps out musical notations and mathematical formulas, holding onto them as a thin line to maintain his sanity.

One time, they offer threats to those he holds close. He ignores them, knowing them for pointless ‘what if’ scenarios. They cannot get to Anthea, because she will be in a safe house, guarded night and day, and wary. They cannot get Lady Smallwood, who will protect herself even more fiercely. They cannot get Sherlock and Sherlock’s friends, because Sherlock has been warned, and he is canny. He also has none of the predictable habits that make him an easier target. His brother is almost chaos incarnate and, having been warned of the danger, he will make himself and his friends impossible to reach until he has enough weapons to crush the threat.

His parents are out of the country again, and he pities the fool who tries to take Eurus. Going for Sherlock would be less of a mistake.

He is in another period of sensory deprivation when the door swings open. And this is different; the men silhouetted by the door are not a uniform height and build. Then the light in his cell clicks on, and he sees…

Sherlock, with Dr. Watson on his heels. Sherlock looks as if he has not slept in days, tousled and with stubble on his face and wrinkles in his clothes. Dr. Watson carries a medical bag and a worried look stamped upon his features.

He squints, eyes watering. Sherlock spots it, comes and stands directly in front of him, his long shadow providing relief. He blinks at his brother. He cannot speak yet, the Novocaine still working.

Sherlock’s eyes roam over him, taking in the damage, the filth. Keen eyes sharpen, and then Sherlock reaches out and his hands come away with the earplugs. “Can you hear me?”

He tries to force his mouth to say yes, but his tongue is swollen with dehydration and being bitten, to say nothing of the numbness. He manages, with great force of will, to force a stilted nod. He thinks, vaguely, that if he could feel that would have hurt.

Sherlock finds the needle marks. “John.”

Dr. Watson comes over and studies his face. “Looks like...dunno, a bit like the kind of injections they do for local anesthetic in facial surgery.”

He forces another nod, which both men catch. Dr. Watson’s expression goes grim. “You’ll have to wait for it to wear off then. Don’t try to talk too much until it does.”

“Check for other injections.” Sherlock bends and pulls out a set of lock-picks, with which he goes to work on the various chains and cuffs.

Dr. Watson does as he is asked, relaying his findings to Sherlock. “Looks like...well, there’s the IV, that’s obvious enough. Dunno what’s in it, but we’ll find out. Other injection sites here...” The doctor indicates his neck and his other arm. “And...” He goes around. “Oh, back of his neck here...looks like...”

Dr. Watson comes around, meets his eyes, then puts a hand on his arm. “Can you feel this?”

He does not nod, and does not have enough coordination to muster a head-shake. Or a verbal denial.

“Full body epidural would be my guess. God knows when that will wear off.” The doctor sighs. “Really not good, Sherlock.”

“They were subjecting my brother to torture and sensory deprivation, John.” Sherlock’s face is stone. “Not good does not begin to cover it.” He is still working on the various manacles and locks, but he does pause to look at Watson. “Please find some me some water.”

Watson disappears without a word. By the time he returns, Sherlock has undone the last of the manacles and is busy unwinding the chains from around him.

The sight of his flesh without the crisscrossing of metal gives him nearly unbearable relief, but also frustration. He has never wanted so badly to be able to  _ move _ .

Sherlock offers him water without a word, and he manages to tilt his head back to accept it. It flows past his lips, cool and wonderful, better than the best chocolate.

John reaches into his medical bag and pulls out a bottle of sports drink, which he also offers. He accepts that too. His sense of taste is returning slowly, and he catches just the faintest hint of sweetness.

John pulls out some clean rags. In front of his eyes, Sherlock pours water over them, holds them up, then rubs one carefully along his arm before asking him another silent question.

He answers ‘yes’ with his eyes, knows his brother sees it, because Sherlock begins to clean him. John stands, goes to shut the door, and comes back.

He cannot help the wide-eyed look he gives the doctor, or the tension that floods his frame. John must be better than he expected at understanding such things, because he answers. “Sherlock brought most of Scotland Yard here, once he found you. Didn’t figure you’d want them walking in on you...like this I mean.” He flushes and gestures to his state.

As if he has any willpower left to care about his dignity. He’s lost track of how long he’s been here, but he’s spent all of it naked, and most of it bruised, brutalized and sitting in his own filth and excrement. But he does, in some hazy way, appreciate Dr. Watson’s thoughtfulness, to hide him from prying eyes.

He realizes that his mind is only barely holding onto reality. Relief is a potent drug, it seems, and he has little strength left. Most of it from the stimulants in the IV that Dr. Watson has already removed, and that strength is fading rapidly.

Sherlock and John finish cleaning him, as much as they can. By then, he has regained enough feeling in his face to attempt speech. “Sherlock.” The word is hoarse and broken and slurred, barely recognizable, but his brother looks up anyway.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock straightens, brushes a hand over his jaw. “The Novocaine is wearing off?”

“Yes.” And it feels good to speak, to be able to speak after this period of screams and silence. Even if his throat rasps on the words.

He wonders for a moment if this might be a drug induced hallucination, but dismisses the thought. If it is, he is done anyway. But he does not think he would see Sherlock like this in a hallucination. Sherlock is too still, too calm, with a cold kind of ice in his eyes. He would imagine Sherlock with fire in his gaze, sharp and never-still and restless. Not gentle and careful. Healthy and neat, not gaunt and disheveled.

For now, he will accept that his brother is real, not a product of drugs or derangement.

Dr. Watson has been cataloging his wounds, his expression growing ever more tense. “He needs a hospital, Sherlock. I can’t treat all of this. Not with the supplies I have.”

Sherlock nods. His sharp eyes flicker over swollen limbs and wounds. “Epidural aside, I assume you have broken bones?”

“Yes.” Talking is good, but it is also an effort. He limits himself to short bursts, and even those make him feel light-headed. “Hands. Feet. Shins.”

“You can’t walk then.” Sherlock delivers a decisive nod. “John, I shall need your assistance.”

“My...Sherlock, I think there’s a bit of a height difference here...” Dr. Watson gestures to his own height, several inches less than Sherlock’s.

“I am aware. I was referring to your medical expertise.” Sherlock tips his head. “A shot of adrenaline I think.” He takes off his heavy Belstaff coat.

“Adrenaline?” Dr. Watson’s eyes widen. “Sherlock...we’ve no idea what he’s been given...”

“Not for Mycroft.” Sherlock tips his head further to the side, exposing his own throat in a clear invitation.

“What...Sherlock, that’s not good for you...you’ve been up for days already. You really shouldn’t...”

“John.” Sherlock cuts his friend off, waits for him to stop speaking. “Do you see any better options?”

Dr. Watson stares at him for a few moments. Then his jaw tightens. His hand plunges into his bag, comes up a few moments later with a syringe. “Fine. But I’ve got conditions.”

“They are?”

“I’m only giving you this one. No more. And after that, when you crash, I want you resting. Both of you.” Dr. Watson’s fierce glare cuts between the two of them.

He wants to scoff. What indication has he given that he has strength to do anything else?

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

“And you’ll follow my orders, or those of your attending doctor. No trying to get around them. And I mean both of you. I expect you’re both the same like that. Stubborn wankers.”

Well, he does have things that will need to be attended to, things that have been neglected by his incarceration.

“I cannot promise for Mycroft, but I shall do my best, barring an emergency.”

Dr. Watson sighs. “Best I’ll get I suppose. But don’t think I won’t tell Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.” The doctor’s gaze cuts to him. “And your assistant.”

“As you like. Now, if you will please just get on with it. I should like to be gone from here.” Sherlock is impatient, but he thinks he would echo the sentiment, if speaking were not so difficult.

Dr. Watson leans forward and injects the contents of the syringe into his brother’s arm.

Most people would surge into motion, on the verge of convulsions, were they given that much adrenaline. Sherlock, being Sherlock, reacts with a deep breath, a crack of his neck, and a flexing of his hands. Then, with brisk efficiency, his brother tucks his arms into his lap, wraps the Belstaff around him, and lifts him up from the chair and into his arms, carrying him bridal style.

He is glad for the epidural. He suspects the pain would be unbearable otherwise. He is also glad for his brother’s lanky but considerable strength.

Sherlock carries him out of the door, the first time he has left it, down a dingy hall. He tries to take notes but exhaustion is, finally, taking it’s toll on his mind.

No matter. Sherlock will be able to tell him everything he wishes to know. Later, when he is better able to concentrate.

They pass Scotland Yard personnel in the hall, and the Yarders give them a wide berth. They emerge into weak, clouded sunlight to dozens more people, buzzing around on self-appointed tasks. He spots Detective Inspector Lestrade’s face in the crowd, but it is only a passing note.

Were he more himself, he would be acutely embarrassed to be seen like this, draped in his younger brother’s arms. Gaunt, unshaved, unwashed. He is aware that he stinks, and he looks as bad as he smells. He knows himself well enough to know shame will set in eventually.

For now, however, he occupies his mind by revising his opinion of Sherlock’s coat. He has often considered the Belstaff to be an affectation, an unnecessary part of his brother’s wardrobe, which Sherlock apparently wears for effect and little else. It is large on Sherlock’s frame, and he has long suspected that his brother got it that way on purpose, so he could use it to flourish and swoop when he finds it appropriate.

Now, however, he find himself appreciating his brother’s taste in outerwear. The Belstaff, long as it is, covers his body most effectively. He is aware enough to appreciate the protection of his modesty that it offers. It is also heavy and warm, a welcome weight in the cool air as they exit his prison.

Sherlock strides over without stopping to an ambulance parked some distance away. Dr. Watson breaks off to intercept Lestrade. A gurney is waiting. Sherlock deposits him on it with rather more care than he expected, then opens the ambulance and heaves him into it. Dr. Watson bolts over to help him, along with Lestrade, and within moments he is settled within the ambulance. Dr. Watson and Sherlock clamber in after him.

“You’ve got him?” The voice is female, and familiar, though it is not the voice of his assistant. It takes longer than it should for him to place it. Molly Hooper, Sherlock’s friend from St. Barts.

“Yes. He needs the hospital Molly, if you would. No, no lights or sirens.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. He did not have the strength to say it, but his newly regained senses would tolerate neither. He would rather take more time to arrive than endure the sounds, and he is grateful that Sherlock has deduced so much.


	2. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's been rescued, but now he needs taking care of

The jolting movement of the ambulance is uncomfortable. Particularly as the effects of the epidural begin to fade. Dr. Watson busies himself with taking his vitals, making notes. Sherlock sits beside him, mouth drawn tight, face pale. His brother sees him looking, and slips one lean hand into his own without a word.

The arrival at St. Barts is...difficult. A hospital is often a scene of barely controlled chaos, which is precisely what erupts when they roll up to the emergency entrance. There are too many people, all talking, trying to get information, and it is overwhelming. Beyond that, the effects of the epidural have truly begun to wear off, and his wounds are making themselves known.

He cannot help the groan that wrenches past his cracked lips as they haul him from the ambulance. Sherlock is at his side immediately, shouldering away the EMT that is trying to shine a light in his eyes. “John.” The doctor takes the hint at once and intercepts the team of medical personnel, giving them information in a quick, low voice.

Sherlock reaches over and plants both hands on his cheekbones. “Mycroft. Focus. Here, on me. Focus on me. You know what to do.” Sherlock’s voice is low and stern. “Come on, Mycroft.”

He does know what to do. He has never been on the receiving end of this treatment, but he knows, from countless rescues of his younger brother. He fixes bleary eyes on Sherlock’s blue-gray ones.

“Good. Listen to me. I will be with you the whole way.” Ludicrous, he knows very well he needs surgery, and Sherlock cannot accompany him to the Operating Room. But the sentiment is appreciated. “Stay with me brother-mine.”

Brother-mine. Sherlock hardly ever calls him that. It is usually he who calls his younger brother by that title. He finds the strength to nod, ever so slightly, against Sherlock’s hands.

“Good.” Sherlock removes one hand and begins to push the gurney. He is joined by Dr. Watson and two of the EMTs, and the gurney is wheeled inside.

The next few hours blur in his mind. Pain, questions, muted noises. He is hooked up to an IV, which would panic him if Sherlock were not speaking to him the whole time, telling him its exact contents and its purpose. Blood is drawn, to check for chemical influences. It takes three tries. Sherlock explains that dehydration has made a mess of his veins. X-rays and other scans are run, and he vaguely hears Sherlock tell him he has 16 broken bones, most the small metacarpals and metatarsals in his hands and feet. He is given something for the pain (morphine, according to Sherlock’s ever present voice, it has become difficult to keep his eyes open). Monitors are attached.

Then he is wheeled into an Operating Room. A mask is fitted over his face. The smell of the knockout gas, so familiar from his capture, nearly sends him into a panic (mortifying, to be so uncontrolled, so subject to his baser instincts), but then a hand touches him. Sherlock, in scrubs, messy hair confined to a cap.

His brother holds his gaze and inhales, deep and slow. He mimics the gesture without conscious thought, knowing what Sherlock wants. In his weakened state, he can only focus on one thing at once, and thus does not notice the odd smell of the drugged gas. He is too busy watching his brother as Sherlock breathes again. And again.

And then, for the second time, he falls into drug-induced darkness.

He wakes an unknown amount of time later. He is pleasantly numb, and recognizes it as morphine induced, rather than blocked, a fact for which he is profoundly grateful. He never thought he would be glad of the ability to feel pain, but he is.

A quick survey of his surroundings reveals a private room, with large windows (curtains drawn, which he appreciates, his eyes are still sensitive) and pale cream colored walls. A nice change from dingy gray. There is a loo a handful of steps away, although he has no urge to use it at this time. The bed is not up to his usual standards, but it is still gloriously soft, after his long confinement to the metal chair.

There are casts on both his legs, and both his arms. An IV in one arm provides liquids and the pain-killing drugs. There are bandages over nearly every inch of him, and a hospital gown over that.

He is profoundly grateful for the latter. He has had more than enough, these past days, of being exposed to the gaze of anyone who happens to look. He is also grateful to have been thoroughly bathed, the smell of offal and blood finally gone from his nose.

But most of all he is grateful for the second bed and the long, lanky, and apparently oblivious figure sprawled in it. Sherlock has not yet changed his clothes, and the stubble is on the verge of becoming an actual beard. His hair needs washing, and he looks as if he has lost what little weight Mrs. Hudson has ever managed to pack onto his frame. But he is there, and even though he is apparently deeply asleep, that is comforting enough.

The door opens with a quiet click to reveal John Watson, juggling a large bag and a coffee. The doctor nudges the door closed with a foot, then strides towards the single vacant chair. He pulls up, blinking, when he sees his open eyes, then sets his things down. “Sorry. Didn’t think you’d be awake yet.” He moves to the side table between the beds and holds up a jug. “Do you want some water? Be good if you think you can stomach it.”

He nods, and Watson pours out a small cupful, adds a straw, and adjusts the bed so he can drink. He finds the straw somewhat demeaning, but ignores it in favor of enjoying the water. Watson urges him to sip slowly, and he does so, savoring the liquid on tongue and cheeks and the roof of his mouth.

He scowls when Watson pulls the cup away, and the doctor gives him an apologetic look. “Need to go slow for a couple days. You’re not in the best of shape.”

He nods and, after two false starts, manages to form the words he wants. “Official prognosis, doctor, if you would be so kind.”

Watson blinks at him, his expression clearly skeptical, then he sighs. “If you’re anything like him...” He jerks his head at Sherlock’s slumbering form. “...then you’ll just try to get up and read it for yourself if I don’t. So...” he picks up the medical chart from the foot of the bed.

He scans the notations for a moment, jaw going tense and hard. “Severe dehydration. Mild malnutrition, reckon you were starved. Signs of sleep deprivation, over exposure to stimulants and what not. Traces of Novocaine and nerve blockers in your system, that’ll be the epidural, most likely. And then there’s the injuries themselves. Numerous contusions, burns, cuts, 16 broken bones, four in your arms, two in your legs, and the rest in your hands and feet. No sustained head trauma, oddly enough. Mild case of muscular atrophy. Sores in...various places. I can list everywhere you were wounded if you really want me to, but that’s the basics of it.” Watson looks up at him.

He remembers the red-hot brand sliding into his arse, and shakes his head. “Details are not necessary at this time. I suspect I remember enough of it.” He does not need to hear it. He already knows that it will haunt his nightmares when he has recovered more fully. The curse of the Holmes memory. Time will not blunt this experience for him, though he intends to bury it as deep as possible within his mind palace, once he gains enough concentration for that.

Watson sighs. “Reckon you do.” He sets the chart back into it’s designated place.

He feels it is necessary to change the subject. “My brother?”

Watson snorts. “You know, until now I’d swear the two of you really do hate each other. But when your assistant showed up, said something had happened to you...”

“We have been resolving our differences. And it was never hate.” Not on his side in any case.

“Yeah, well. Anyway, he was like a dog with a bone. Didn’t sleep, barely ate. I had to force him, me and Lestrade. Lestrade got involved when he came by with a case and Sherlock turned him down cold. A locked room homicide, and Sherlock said he had things of ‘greater interest and more importance’ to be getting on with.”

The notion that Sherlock said something like that, and about a locked room homicide, fills him with warmth. He’s wondered if his younger brother would ever reciprocate the care he has given him over the years.

“You were missing for just about 10 days. And if he’s had 12 hours of sleep in that whole time, I’d be surprised. He’s been practically living off coffee, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he bribed someone into giving him stimulants. Though it’s possible he just stole them from somewhere. Not really my concern. And since then, every spare moment’s been spent looking for clues. I swear he’s traced every inch of street between your office and the place we found you.”

“I see.” And he does. He’s seen his brother on the trail of a difficult puzzle. It’s heartening to realize that his disappearance warranted such focus from Sherlock. Of course, as careful as his captors were, that might be all that was needed to intrigue his sibling. But still, it is good to know.

He finds himself feeling parched again. Watson gives him some more water, and by the time he is finished drinking the world has gone soft around the edges and sleep beckons. He does not fight, knowing that sleep is a healing force, or so he has been informed.

The next time he wakes, it is not so gentle. Memory resurfaces in his dreams, forcing him to relive his torture. He wakes with a gasp, heart pounding. The room is dark, and he cannot move his arms and legs properly. He feels his control slipping, feels himself on the verge of a panic attack, on the edge of screaming. The thin, shrill sound of the monitor alert helps nothing, reminiscent as it is of some of the methods his captors used.

And then a light appears, a phone screen, followed by a hoarse voice. “Mycroft?”

Sherlock is at his side in the next instant, hands on his face, warm and gentle and solid. One hand flicks up and mutes the alarm. The light of the phone tilts up, illuminating his brother’s face and the immediate space around them, without overpowering brightness.

“Breathe.” In the dim light, Sherlock inhales. He follows Sherlock’s lead. Deep breath. Hold. Release. Repeat. His heart slows, and the edge of panic recedes from his nerves. Adrenaline ceases to flood his veins. The monitor settles down to a quieter, slower rhythm.

Sherlock relaxes after a moment, straightening. The light is bright enough for him to see that his brother has changed clothes, showered and shaved since his last period of awareness. Sherlock brings him water to drink and cleans the sweat off his face, adjusts his blankets, then sits next to the bed.

“Memories, I assume?”

“Yes.” He feels no need to elaborate. Sherlock has seen his wounds. Sherlock knows what he was subjected to, even if he might not know all the particulars.

Sherlock hesitates, then speaks in a quiet, hesitant voice, unlike his brother’s usual tones. “They will fade. With time. With...organization, once you’ve recovered your strength. Even for us, such things pass.”

“Do they?” He has often wondered. Sherlock has endured physical torture, in Serbia, and mental torture multiple other times. He has had less experience with it, the closest being Eurus’s manipulations and his own fear for his brother. The memories of Sherrinford have been soothed by the resolution of the problem, but his fear for Sherlock has never faded. It is a constant shadow in his world.

“In my experience.” Sherlock offers no further details. He does not ask. He does not need to. He has Sherlock’s medical files. He knows.

“How…” He leaves the question unfinished. How did his brother cope, until the edges of memory were worn down?

Sherlock understands. “Work. Company. I was rarely alone, and there was much to do. Between the plot to blow up the Underground, John’s wedding, and other things.”

Magnusson is a sore spot between them still, and he lets his brother pass the reference by without comment. The same is true of the woman who was, among many other names, Mary Watson.

That brings the good doctor to mind, however, and he looks around the darkened room, feeling a sudden rush of mortification that someone besides his brother might have witnessed his weakness, his fear.

Sherlock follows his glance and shakes his head. “John has returned home to his daughter. Molly is on call at the hospital, and knows I will call her if something is wrong. There are officers outside, but they will not have heard anything.”

Relief fills him and he relaxes back into his mattress. It is only then that he realizes how drawn and tired Sherlock still looks. “You should rest.”

“As should you.” Sherlock rises gracefully, then moves his phone to the side table. A few deft motions plug it into a charging port. “I shall leave the light. Will you sleep, or shall I have the nurse bring you something?”

His brief surges of panic have proved even more draining than plain speech. The morphine still dulls the aches, and the light, along with Sherlock’s presence, dispels his fears. Under these conditions, he can already feel oblivion beckoning. “No need.”

Sherlock nods and retires. Soon enough, he hears his brother’s breathing even out into the steady, slow rhythm of deep slumber. Shortly after that, he follows his brother into sleep.

No more dreams trouble him for the rest of the night.

He spends the next day drowsing and waking in short periods. Someone is always there when he awakens, someone he knows. Sherlock or Watson or Anthea. The routine would be dull in it’s sameness if he had any strength to be bored. He drinks the liquids given to him, makes short conversations, and falls back asleep. At one point, he realizes he has a catheter inserted, which is uncomfortable. However, he concedes that it is necessary, as well as preferable to fouling the sheets, or making a mess trying to get to the facilities.

The next day, they begin to wean him off the pain-killers and other narcotics. This is uncomfortable, but he accepts it as the price for the return to alertness. This also brings the first visit from a physician that he actually remembers. How Anthea pulled the strings to have his personal, private physician attending him, he does not know. Nor does he care. This is a man he can trust with his secrets, and he is glad of his presence, if not his news.

It is not a comforting thought, to know that he will be barred from working for a minimum of six weeks, and will spend some time longer in therapy, and a wheelchair. He is given a detailed list of minimal exercises he can undertake to limit the atrophy to his limbs, along with the optimal and less-than-optimal timelines for his recovery. He is also given a dietary plan to help his system recover as quickly as possible, and several medications to ease pain, avoid infections, and speed recovery.

The worst news, however, is the information that he will need a caretaker until the casts are removed. With both hands and feet immobilized he cannot feed himself, relieve himself, dress himself, nor even bathe. He will need someone to give him careful baths, without getting his casts wet. He will need someone to clothe him, help him to the bathroom, feed him like an infant.

Sherlock is there for the doctor’s news, and waits until the man leaves before he speaks. “The arrangements have already been made.”

“Arrangements? And what, pray tell, has been arranged?” His voice is sharp, driven by a combination of shame at being helpless and anger that his life is being arranged without his input and consent.

“I will remain with you. John and Molly will help with your injuries, along with your physician. Your assistant will see that we have food and other necessities. You cannot type or write, but you can dictate, and I presume that she knows enough of your secrets for you to get some work done. Lady Smallwood has also been in contact, and says that she will make sure the appropriate reports and documents are forwarded to you. I shall handle the rest.”

He scoffs, and cannot help the incredulous disdain in his voice. “You? Care for an invalid? Sherlock, you cannot even spend a single day in one place without being bored.”

“Untrue. Given proper experimental materials, I can remain in my flat for several weeks without suffering a decline in mental stimulation. And while John has forbidden most of my experiments on grounds of endangering your health, I am aware that it is your house we shall be in. An environment with which I am only passingly familiar, and have never made a dedicated exploration of. It is the perfect opportunity.” Sherlock’s smile is devious and should make him nervous, he thinks. He wonders why it does not.

“Really Sherlock. Do you think I leave my secrets where anyone could find them?”

“No. But I am not just anyone. And in any case, I need not discover your secrets. I merely wish to see what makes the great Mycroft Holmes, the British Government personified, tick.”

“Good luck. You’ll need it.” The back-and-forth teasing, just on the edge of challenge, feels good. Perhaps that is why Sherlock’s smile does not bother him as much as it should. He has needed this, he realizes, since he was taken. It is proof that he has been freed.

Sherlock is as good as his word. Two days later, when he is finally released, it is Sherlock who wheels him out to the transport van, driven by Gregory Lestrade. Sherlock and John who load him into a specially designed reclining seat for the drive to his home. It is Sherlock who wheels him into the manor, who guides the chair into a guest room downstairs. A guest room that has already been aired out and dusted and swept clean, with fresh, soft sheets on the bed.

It is Sherlock who arranges him comfortably among the mounds of pillows, making sure back and arms and legs are all supported properly. Sherlock who arranges his medicines on the side table.

It is Sherlock who brings him lunch a short time later, who sets up a book for him to read on a computer, along with a hastily rigged mouse that allows him to change pages with the touch of a button. A small bit of freedom, but welcome.

It is Sherlock who later wheels him into the loo and lifts him to where he can relieve himself, cleans him up and takes him back, all without a single derogatory word.

Sherlock who wheels him into the cinema room that night, brings him dinner and his medicine and puts on a film for him, one of his favorites. And afterward, takes him back and reads to him, until the sleeping pills he has been prescribed send him into slumber.

It is Sherlock who comes to him that night, when he awakens from another nightmare memory, and stays until he has calmed, saying nothing. He’ll have to check for monitoring devices when he has regained his freedom of movement, but for now his brother’s presence is a welcome one, and he does not bother to protest.

The next morning Dr. Watson comes, arriving shortly after breakfast. And it is Sherlock who fills the doctor in on his progress, then helps transport him to the bathing facilities to wash. It is Dr. Watson who carefully removes his bandages and checks for signs of infection, but it is Sherlock who bathes him with careful hands and soft clothes, dries him with equal gentleness.

He wants to cringe with shame as he is laid out, nude except for his casts, so that ointment can be applied to the still-healing burns and cuts that he is marked with. Especially as Watson’s careful hands work lower, towards his waist and the marks that adorn hips, groin and buttocks.

And yet, it is not Watson’s hands that smooth ointment into those wounds. The hands that touch him there have a lighter touch, deft and long-fingered. He opens his eyes to find Sherlock tending him, careful as he has been with everything else. His brother meets his gaze but says nothing, only continues to tend him with a cautious intensity, treating all the wounds that he finds shame in being seen. Every cut and burn is treated with meticulous and gentle care before the medicine is passed back to Dr. Watson. Bandages and dressings are applied with equal skill and attention, and then Sherlock covers him with a towel until they finish with the rest of his wounds.

Afterward, Watson leaves the room, and it is Sherlock who helps him, with sure and careful hands, through the arduous process of putting on small-clothes and pajama bottoms and a robe.

Anthea brings him lunch and reports and updates. She helps him take his medicine and eat with brisk efficiency. The remainder of the morning and the beginning of the afternoon passes swiftly in work, and almost he manages to ignore his position and his inability to leave his bed without help.

Sherlock checks in on him, otherwise absent. It is he who catches the signs of fatigue that begin to make themselves known in mid-afternoon. Anthea leaves with the files and a polite farewell and a promise to return the following day. Sherlock helps him to relieve himself, then leaves him to rest.

They play chess that night, Sherlock moving his pieces at his direction, and mocking him gently about this or that move, without ever mocking his inability to handle the pieces himself.

He falls asleep wondering at his brother’s odd forbearance, and at where Sherlock found such an endless well of patience and kindness. Some of it must surely be Watson’s influence, and perhaps Molly Hooper’s and Lestrade’s, but it is still difficult to fathom. Almost as difficult as his apparent subconscious acceptance of it, and his instinctive trust that it is unlikely end.

He ponders the matter, off and on, throughout the next day. He focuses on it during his morning bathing and treatment, a welcome distraction from the humiliation that curls in his gut. He thinks of it while eating and waiting for Anthea to arrive and present his reports, and after she leaves, when Sherlock leaves him alone to rest. He is distracted by it that evening, content more to trace his own thoughts than to pay attention to the movie Sherlock chooses for them to watch. He has seen the film before, but never this side of his usually abrasive and active brother.

He wakes from another nightmare that night, and again Sherlock comes to him, soothes him and makes him comfortable. It is not until his brother rises to leave that he realizes that he will not sleep until he understands. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock stops in the door, looks at him, then returns to his chair. “Something you need?”

“I...you have been very patient. I confess, I had not expected...” He trails off.

“Expected me to stay? To look after you?” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, and a corner of his mouth.

“Yes. It is...most unusual for you.”

Sherlock inclines his head in agreement. Then rises, pacing around the room, fingers tapping compressed lips as he thinks. Finally, he returns to his seat, flinging himself into it with his usual nervous energy. “There are many answers I could give you.”

“Do tell.”

“It would not be a lie, to say that it is something of an experiment. I have rarely had good cause to practice patience. Yet, I am aware that the skill is invaluable, both in the pursuit of my chosen career and in matters of domestic harmony.”

“Indeed.” The thought that this, this kindness, is all an experiment, is both painful and relieving. He can withstand being Sherlock’s experiment. He has been so before. And it only means that nothing will change about their relationship. And yet...he cannot deny, here in the darkness with no one to condemn him for sentiment, that he had hoped for more. Such weakness he can blame on the drugs weakening his control, if he must.

Before he can resolve himself to that course of action, however, his brother speaks again.

“Experiment. It is not a lie. And yet...” Sherlock’s fingers tap together, signs of nervousness on his part.

The next words come slowly, as if Sherlock is still working them out, still learning them. “You have seen me through many of the worst times of my life. Many times when my...indulgences...put my life, and more importantly, my mind, at risk. I have not always approved of or appreciated your methods, but I cannot deny that, without you, I should be a dead or drooling wreck lost in an alley or a drug den or some such equally foul place. And, you have been there when my work has led me into danger, of both life and sanity, as with Moriarty.”

A pause, and his brother continues, more sure and yet, also more vulnerable in his tone. “I have never truly thanked you. Never responded in kind. In fact, I have often repaid your care with harsh words and insults, sometimes even violence. However, our sister made me realize...”

Sherlock stops and coughs, looking awkward and uncomfortable in the dim light. He can feel a tightness in his own throat, an ache in his eyes and his sinuses, but he does not interrupt. Sherlock will finish his thoughts, or he will not, but his brother has never responded well to pressure.

Finally, Sherlock breathes in and continues, his eyes fixed on the far wall as if that will make the words easier. “Before Sherrinford, I was angry at the secrets you kept. But watching you, going through the trials Eurus inflicted on us...I did not enjoy your suffering. Nor, when she asked me to choose, did I wish your death. As you did not enjoy nor wish mine. It has caused me to re-evaluate certain things. As Moriarty and my mock-death forced me to reconsider.”

Another breath. “I do not know if you and I...what state our relationship may take. But I do know...”

Sherlock stops, shakes his head. Then his lips compress. He sits a moment, tense and trembling, then lurches out of his chair to come to the bedside. Gentle hands reach out, and he feels the pressure of Sherlock’s thin fingers on his jaw, then his shoulders.

Sherlock’s words are slow and deliberate. “I am not you Mycroft. But I...” He inhales, closes his eyes, and then opens them. Blue eyes stare into gray as Sherlock speaks his next words, slow and solemn. “I am not angry with you, Mycroft, for anything. And I will always be there for you, to the best of my ability.”

A promise, but more than that, a ritual. These are the words he has spoken to Sherlock every time he has rescued him. Every time his brother has descended into drug-drenched madness, every time he has got high and nearly killed himself with an overdose, every time he has come home bruised and shaking, in a mess that only he can fix, and some that are beyond even his skills and influence, these are the words he has said.

They are words Sherlock has received with anger, with tears, with stoic silence and disbelieving bitterness. They are words he has spoken while his brother convulses in withdrawal, words he has spoken when Sherlock has lain pale and non-responsive in a hospital bed. A hundred situations, all terrible. Spoken on a plane when his brother was hallucinating and speaking nonsense, and to his brother’s back as Sherlock stalked off in a drug-fueled fury.

He has never thought to receive this promise from his brother in return. He has never truly needed it before, but he has never expected that Sherlock would be willing to give him such commitment.

“Why?” He cannot help the question.

Sherlock snorts. “There’s nothing in the punch here, Mycroft. I’m not going to answer that.” Sherlock’s eyes are glittering with a complex blend of amusement and anxiety and other emotions that he hesitates to put a name to.

_ Nothing in the punch... _ He feels a small smile curl his mouth as he recognizes the reference, what it means. An answering swell of warmth curls through his stomach and his chest, like the warmth of brandy, only better. 

“Nothing in yours.” He manages the words lightly, with an answering tone of amusement. “I cannot say the same.”

“True. But John would kill me if I got into your medicines. And Molly would hit me again. And then Lestrade wouldn’t allow me to do anything interesting for a year. It would be so dreadfully dull.”

“How terrible for you, enforced sobriety by friends.”

“How nice for you, enforced drugs.”

“And boredom.” He scowls at the bed. “I cannot say I will enjoy another five-and-a-half weeks of this.”

Sherlock tips his head. “True. Though as lazy as you are...”

“Even I have my limits, Sherlock. And enforced inactivity is never as satisfying as otherwise.”

“Point. You’re recovering.” Sherlock smiles, and there is no sarcasm in his gaze. “That is good.” The smile fades. “It means you will be able to suppress the nightmares soon.”

“A comforting thought.” And it is. He does not enjoy being woken with memories of pain and torment. He will be glad to archive them in the deepest recesses of his mind palace and ignore them.

But there is still Sherlock. For the first time, he realizes his brother is dressed in the same clothes he was previously. He is reminded that his brother is not prone to sleeping much, no more than he would be without the effects of sedatives and pain-killers in his system.

He clears his throat, catching Sherlock’s attention. “Even so, I would not be adverse to company in the evenings. It would probably be for the best to begin to reestablish my schedule and habits as much as my injuries will allow.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock hums an affirmation, then nods. “We will discuss it tomorrow. For now, you should rest.” He turns to go.

He lets his brother leave, sinking back into his pillows and closing his eyes.

He no longer worries about the remainder of his convalescence. He does not expect it to be pleasant, but he no longer fears it will be a trial of his patience.

Sherlock will see that he is sufficiently entertained and informed. He has no doubt his brother will keep the promise he has made. And knowing that, he finds that many things about this ordeal will be easier to bear.

He has seen Sherlock at his worst, and the idea of Sherlock reciprocating, tending his wounds as he has often cared for his brother, makes the idea and memories of his care less shameful and humiliating. The only other who will see is Dr. Watson, who is close as a brother to Sherlock, and has presumably seen as bad or worse in the wars.

He does not fear any longer that he shall endure shame or ridicule or pain at his brother’s hands. Sherlock knows the unspoken meanings of the words he has given, a vow of care and protection.

Realization touches him like lightning. The thing he has known, the subconscious fact that kept him calm when he was captured, and sane when he was tortured and tormented.

For all their acrimonious and difficult relationship, for all the uncomfortable memories that exist between them, he trusts his brother still. He trusted him to find him, trusted him to save him. Trusted him to stay.

He is safe with Sherlock.

Safe. Something tight and coiled in the center of his being, something he has ignored until now, melts into relaxation. Peace banishes the last doubts and shadows from his mind. He sinks back towards the darkness of sleep, a new mantra dancing through his mind, knowing it will hold the nightmares and the memories at bay.

He is with his brother. And he is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. Feels. Brotherly bonding. All the brotherly fluff.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, massive Mycroft whump. Don't hate me.


End file.
